


last night's ghosts

by losebetter



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anders/Male Hawke (referenced) - Freeform, Diplomatic Hawke, Gen, assholes playing cards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5052103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/pseuds/losebetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Knockout,” Varric agrees. “Wager?”</p><p>Hawke shrugs. “That corset story you’re always asking after,” he says, and smirks. It’s tired on him, doesn’t fit his face the way a proper smile would, but Varric is kind enough not to mention it, and nods thoughtfully.</p><p>“You get a question,” he says, and Hawke laughs; it’s an old game, doesn’t feel like it should belong here in this basement, so far from home for them both. Stories for wins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	last night's ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winebearcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winebearcat/gifts).



> so i'm doing a [prompt meme](http://losebetter.tumblr.com/post/131128648931/send-me-two-or-more-characters-and-a-number-and) over on [my tumblr](http://losebetter.tumblr.com/), and [winebearcat](http://winebearcat.tumblr.com/) was kind enough to prompt me for tinyhawke/anders, _"have you ever wanted to hate someone?"_ which was too good to resist. because i am terrible, i wrote it as a card game with varric, instead, although there's handers throughout. sorry, bb! ♥
> 
> for the confused: [tinyhawke](http://losebetter.tumblr.com/tagged/circinus-hawke) is a custom hawke, though he’s never mentioned by name. his most defining features here are probably his height (quite short) and his [floral facial tattoos](http://losebetter.tumblr.com/post/131219139351/kirkwallgirl-hes-blooming-in-case-you-dont) (although they don’t actually come to life the way they do in this painting, more’s the pity). as this is a da:i-era fic, he probably looks a little more like [this](http://36.media.tumblr.com/e0eab5547e2d2ca592030a547db28065/tumblr_nvd33uuU4u1uopznto2_1280.png).
> 
> no warnings for this fic, i don't think? it’s sort of a character exercise, a study in tension and heartache when all you can do is wait. hawke and varric are shit-talkers. this fic is set somewhere in the middle of _here lies the abyss_ , post-western approach but pre-adamant.
> 
>  **UPDATE:** this now has a [podfic](http://ketzaleh.tumblr.com/post/133892430781/13-tinyhawkeanders) (!!!!!!!) by the lovely [kess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kess)! i can hardly believe it, myself. :,D thank you so much, darling! go give the thing a listen, if you've a mind?

Below Skyhold proper, someone coughs. A desk, two chairs, a deck of cards, fire in the lanterns. The deck changes hands, subtle and slow, and eight long fingers steeple apathetically, skin weathered by careless magic.

“You can deal.”

“No high-card draw?”

“Fuck the high-card draw.”

Varric chuckles, ragged. Out of his element, if only just, and trying to resettle. “You trust me too much.”

“One of my consistent shortcomings,” Hawke agrees, and flattens his palm over the pair of facedown cards Varric has slipped him. “Hold it,” he says abruptly, before Varric lifts his own pair. “A blind go,” he offers.

“The void with it,” Varric replies, though he doesn’t check his own cards. “Fair enough. Show on three?”

They count down, flame flickering in its cage lantern. Both flip their left card.

“Two priestesses,” Hawke reports evenly. The only two in the deck. He should’ve figured.

“Knockout,” Varric agrees. “Wager?”

Hawke shrugs. “That corset story you’re always asking after,” he says, and smirks. It’s tired on him, doesn’t fit his face the way a proper smile would, but Varric is kind enough not to mention it, and nods thoughtfully.

“You get a question,” he says, and Hawke laughs; it’s an old game, doesn’t feel like it should belong here in this basement, so far from home for them both. Stories for wins.

“You’re an ass,” he says fondly. “I accept. Show on three.” 

They do; Varric eyes the table, then shakes his head.

“The weakest priestess,” he says, of Hawke’s hand - his priestess-king trumps Hawke’s priestess-priest significantly enough.

Hawke tuts. “The lovers.” He sounds forlorn, and Varric makes a face like something has physically twisted in his chest.

“You start getting metaphorical,” he threatens, “I’ll knock your lights out.”

“I’d thank you,” Hawke says bitterly - he sighs and hands his pair of cards back to Varric, who shuffles them back into the deck with an expectant arch to his brow.

“Surely it isn’t that bad?” Varric prompts hopefully. “And you owe me a corset story, Hawke. Make me blush.”

“Anders did up all the laces on that contraption I wore to Chateau Haine,” Hawke explains - to his credit, he does blush, rosy pink disappearing into the unkempt dark grey of his stubble. “Tightened them appropriately and proceeded to reach between my legs. If you’re trying to cheer me up about Corypheus, it’d be best not to admit to it - I’ll flip you out of your chair.”

“Blue-balling me,” Varric complains, dealing out another pair of cards. Hawke picks them up immediately this time, shows a poker face only through exhaustion.

“Don’t be crude.”

“Crude?  _Me?"_

“You act as though I’ve never  _read_  any of your books, Varric.”

“Crankypants,” Varric snorts. “Wager?”

Hawke coughs. “Got to be more careful with my wagers if last round is anything to go by. A question.”

“I’ll match you,” Varric says amiably enough. He flips his first card - a king.

Hawke flips a queen and can’t dredge up the energy to look smug. “You going to fold, my friend?”

Varric cuts him a cheeky smile. “We could always call our second cards, all or nothing.”

“Fuck off,” Hawke says frankly, but his smile reaches his eyes this time. Varric shares a laugh with him, the toe of one muddy boot knocking against its brother.

Varric shows a priest, Hawke a king.

“Lovers again,” Varric points out unnecessarily, and Hawke sighs so deeply his bones nearly let out an audible creak.

“My lucky day,” Hawke says, through a thickness in his throat. “Night? Day?” He casts his gaze about at the wall-to-wall bookshelves in his little basement nook.

“By the Stone, Hawke, get outside every now and then.” Varric’s eyes go serious, sharp under their lids, piercing through the dank air. “You’re going to rot down here before the Inquisition has the manpower to charge Adamant,” he says, a rare show of tactical consideration. “And ask me a question,” he huffs, leaning back to break the illusion, “you’ve got the attention span of a gnat.”

He collects the cards and shuffles quietly for minutes before Hawke finally speaks, licking his dry lips.

“Have you ever wanted to hate someone?”

Varric stops shuffling, a lapse too noticeable in such a tense space. His eyebrows slowly wing up toward his hairline.

“Sure,” he begins easily enough. And then, flippant: “I hate a lot of people. Although that isn’t technically what you asked, I suppose.”

“It isn’t,” Hawke agrees. There’s a seriousness in the set of his eyes, shadows underneath a little too deep.

Varric sighs and sets the deck down in front of him, nimble fingers straightening every card to fit.

“Bartrand’s the obvious answer, isn’t he?” Varric shrugs helplessly. “But what’re you gonna do? Family’s family.” He cuts his gaze to Hawke again, levelling him. “What about you, Hawke? You ever wanted to hate someone? Not really your area of expertise, is it.”

“No, it's not,” Hawke admits. He arches an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you win a hand before you get to ask me this?” He supposes he deserves the look he gets in response, something about normal people not needing to cheat at cards to have a conversation sketched into the lines of Varric’s brow. "Right." He shifts in his seat, rolls his tight shoulders.

"Just saying," and Varric shuffles the cards through an immaculate bridge, Hawke watching each card fold back into the deck. "That doesn't sound like the kind of question that comes out of nowhere."

“I’ve - given it some thought.”

“And?” Another bridge.

There’s a beat of silence, and then: “So many people I care for have been hurt.” It makes Varric think of Cole, and his next bridge is slightly off-center. He imagines Cole trying to help his best friend, trying to untangle all of the guilt and grief.

 _Good luck with that one, kid_ , he thinks, and bookends the thought with a knee-jerk,  _ **don’t**._  Just in case.

They remain alone in the room, the lanterns undisturbed. 

When Hawke tries to clear his throat, it turns into another cough. He sounds ill, but when Varric deals his fingers take up the cards well enough.

“I want to hate what’s hurt them,” Hawke admits. “It should be easy, shouldn’t it? If someone I love - " He stops, and Varric doesn’t press him. They both flip their first cards. The sole magician in the deck stares up at Hawke, hair wild, hands raised.

“Anders doesn’t need you to fight his battles for him,” Varric intones quietly, the usual bitterness of the name unable to make it past his lips. He doesn’t flip his second card.

Hawke dips his head, long bangs dropping in front of his eyes. “I know,” he says. “I  _know_ , that’s - he’s strong. So much stronger than I'd ever imagined, and I’ve known him for a long time, now.” Hawke’s hand settles on the magician card, angling it one way, then another. When it’s perfectly in line with his facedown card, he fidgets.

“He’s been fighting for so long,” he continues, “giving himself fully to this cause, and I - I can’t even  _dredge_  up the passion to be  _angry_  at everything that’s gotten in his way.” His voice gets hard by the end of it, the words so full of self-loathing that Varric has to swallow and give them space.

“And that makes you - what,” Varric asks, after a moment, “a shitty friend?”  _A bad lover?_   He thinks it, but can’t quite manage it.

Hawke flicks his eyes back up to him. “It makes me a coward.”

Varric crosses his arms, sits back in his chair. The words sit there, no better for being out. They seem to both give up the pretense of Diamondback at the same time.

“I disagree,” Varric says finally. He isn’t looking at Hawke anymore.

“Still? Even after seeing me here?”

Something in Varric’s forehead pulls unpleasantly. His eyebrows knit. “Of course. Hell,” he starts, voice swinging, “probably moreso. You should be out, fuck if I know, retiring on a farm somewhere by now.”

Hawke’s quiet laugh is brittle. “I’m not a hero, Varric. I never was.”

“You take that back,” Varric says immediately. “ ‘S my best friend you’re talking about.” He means for it to be a joke, but it falls flat somewhere in the middle. He rolls his shoulder, tries again. “Besides, I wrote the book, I can make the hero whoever I want.”

Hawke hums but doesn’t reply otherwise, so Varric takes in a deep breath and lets it out, leaning in again.

“Listen, Hawke,” he starts. “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.” His voice is flat, undecorated, and it seems to give Hawke pause. “So that’s that. And you can - talk about passion all you want, but the truth is that there is no right way to do it.”

He watches Hawke’s gaze as it drifts over his own hands, over the card.

“You don’t have to be pissed about something to care about it.”

Hawke sits up a little straighter, though his eyes still look pinched with stress. “It sounds stupid when you say it like that.”

Varric shakes his head, uncrossing his ankles to let his heels drop to the floor with a  _thump_. A smile ghosts on his face. “For you? It is. This is basic shit.” The smile drops, but there’s a fondness in his eyes still. “Honestly, Hawke. I know that - everything went fucking  _crazy_. It really did. The shit we saw in Kirkwall, it’s - that’s not  _normal_.”

“Comforting,” Hawke allows, but the corner of his mouth quirks.

Varric gestures broadly. “I’m serious! There’s a reason people are still talking about that Maker-damned nightmare. It’s because it was fucking  _impossible_.”

“That you wrote a book about it probably helped.”

Varric rolls his eyes. “How could I not?  _Listen_. In the real world, in normal life? When you don’t have - fucking, religious zealot armies hopped up on lyrium and authority and - " Varric shoves the thought of Red Templars from his mind, with effort, " - fucking, I don’t know, Knight-Commander Meredith’s loopy, strung-out asshole punch literally  _breaking down your door at night_ , it’s - Hawke, it’s enough.” He takes a breath. “What you do is enough.”

Hawke has gone very still. “You can’t know that,” he breathes.

“That a bet?” Varric retorts. “Because I’ll win, I promise you.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Hawke, when it comes down to it - you  _try_.” Varric bites his lip, then lets it go. “You try. And that’s more than a lot of people do. Okay?” He shifts in his seat again, dropping his hands so they’re folded on his stomach. “And if even common-folk assholes like me can see it, you’re trying pretty damned hard.”

Hawke looks up, meets his gaze. He’s still obviously exhausted, but his next breath seems to come more easily, which might as well be a miracle. “And that’s enough.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but Varric knows him well enough to catch the skepticism, and underneath, the uncertainty. The guilt.

“It’s all you can do,” he answers plainly. “It’s all any of us can do.”

Hawke’s fingers walk, aimless, along the facedown card on his side of the table. “I suppose you’re right.”

**Author's Note:**

> hawke and varric are playing _diamondback_ \- [this post](http://cherith.tumblr.com/post/16727477181/meta-dragon-age-diamondback) is a pretty good guide to how the game is played, though they bend the rules. if you want to do this up tumblr style, the post for this fic is [here](http://losebetter.tumblr.com/post/133714911661/13-tinyhawkeanders)! for reblogging or what you like. thanks! ♥


End file.
